The Secret Lives of Dresses by Erin McKean

later, but visiting hours end soon. Anyway, maybe Gabby got confused, and thought she was meeting you at the hospital.”
    Dora hesitated.
    “If you’re thinking, ‘What would Mimi do?’ I’m pretty sure she would say take the ride, and give Gabby a piece of your mind at a more convenient date.”
    Dora smiled. “She would. Just let me put a note on the door, in case Gabby’s lost her cell phone again and doesn’t hear my message.”
    “Here, let me.” Con opened his aluminum clipboard with a flourish and produced a large sticky note. It said MURPHY CONSTRUCTION in red letters across the top. He wrote “GABBY—TOOK DORA TO SEE MIMI. CON.”
    Con looked down at Dora’s bag. “Let me carry your books? My truck’s right over there.”
    It said MURPHY FINE CONSTRUCTION on the side of it.
    “Is your last name Murphy?” Dora asked. “If I knew your last name, then this wouldn’t technically be ‘getting into the vehicle of a strange man.’”
    “It is Murphy. Although, if it weren’t, I’d tell you it was anyway, at this point.” Con opened the door for her.
    “That’s . . . not exactly reassuring, but I am not going to ask any questions,” Dora said as she clambered up into the cab.
    “Good call.” Con grinned and got in himself. He put Mimi’s book on the back shelf seat.
    The short drive to the hospital felt awkward. “I should warn you . . . ,” Dora started.
    “Don’t worry. I know. I bet she looks worse than she is, doesn’t she?”
    “I hope she looks worse than she is,” Dora said.
    “When my dad was sick . . . it was like the hospital added twenty years to him. I think it’s the lightbulbs, and the food, and having people come in and ask you if you’re comfortable when you’ve just fallen asleep.” Con was quiet for a moment.
    Con skipped the entrance to the parking garage before Dora could protest. “Look, I’ll let you off in front, so you can go in right away, and I’ll park and meet you.”
    “Thank you.” Dora hopped out quickly. Now that she was here she found she couldn’t wait another minute to see Mimi. She let herself imagine the doctor meeting her at the door to Mimi’s room, with the phrases “miraculous recovery” or “tremendous progress.” Mimi sitting up in bed, doing the crossword puzzle with Gabby, telling the nurse about a more flattering way to do her hair, or politely flipping through an Avon catalogue. Mimi giving her a hug, exclaiming over the dress.
    But the door was closed. There was no doctor, no nurse, no Gabby. Mimi was not sitting up and doing the crossword puzzle. She was lying terribly still, and Dora held her breath for a moment, listening for the beep of the machine. She counted three beeps before she stepped all the way into the room.
    Dora pulled the chair closer and reached for Mimi’s hand. There was a bandage across the back of it. It made Dora feel indignant, thinking of them poking Mimi with needles, no matter out of what necessity. She sat there, holding Mimi’s hand.
    “You should talk to her,” said Con, appearing in the doorway.
    “I know. I just don’t know what to say.”
    “What did you usually talk about?”
    “Well, lately, it was how I didn’t need to be working in a coffee shop while I’m in school, and, oh, by the way, what did I want to do with my life? How I should wear just a little lipstick, it would brighten my whole face. How Birkenstocks aren’t really shoes. You know, the usual.” Dora hated how her voice sounded.
    “I agree with Mimi. Birkenstocks aren’t really shoes, and I always wear lipstick when I need to brighten up my face, which is never, by the way. And if people didn’t work in coffee shops, where would I get my coffee?” Con smiled. “There. We’ve exhausted all those topics of conversation. When . . . when my dad was in the hospital, we used to sit there and tell old family stories. My brother trying to make soufflés when he was ten—he’s a big-deal chef now, so it